


To Grieve in their Fur

by CuddlyKoala



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And perhaps more, Canine Character Death, Cruelty against Animals, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a good friend, Will's Dogs are his family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlyKoala/pseuds/CuddlyKoala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a brutal attack on his home, Will mourns for his dogs. Hannibal doesn't like it when someone else makes Will unhappy and corrects the problem in true Hannibal fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Grieve in their Fur

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt on Dreamwidth:  
> "You know how sometimes in movies the people our protagonist has problems with go after his dogs? :( (It even happens in one of Mads's movies, just watched it yesterday D: )  
> So what I'd like to see is that someone kills one or multiple dogs of Will and Hannibal exacting revenge :X Also a huge plus if he gives Will new puppies."
> 
> Do I need to warn you it's rather sad? But it gets better, I promise.  
> Also, English isn't my native language, so please feel free to point out any spelling or grammar mistake.

Unsurprisingly given the late hour, the house is dark and quiet. Graham’s car is parked in the middle of his yard. Good, it means he is home.

The man is getting cold. He had to do a half hour trek through the wild to ensure no one could identify his presence based on tyre tracks or whatever. It’s amazing what they have these days to identify criminals. One has to wonder then why so many of them are not caught. Not that he considers himself a criminal, no. He would rather describe himself as a gardener. To ensure the well-being of the good plants, the gardener has to eliminate the weeds. It’s exactly what he intends to do. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to live and pollute impressionable minds. It’s incredible what people are ready to believe. But he knows better. Graham is a weed and Freddie Lounds has seen it clearly. Shame she isn’t heard by the right persons. That lawsuit she has been threatened with… a laughable tentative of intimidation from the FBI to prevent her from exposing the truth: the FBI is employing a clinically insane person, one who has already killed. After all, getting so easily in the minds of killers must come from some kind of kinship, no?

He watches the house from the line of trees nearby. It’s a nice place, actually. A bit creepy since it’s so remote, but overall a much finer estate than what Graham deserves. Reassured there is no one around to stop him, he makes his way toward the house.

As quietly as possible, he opens the door. No need to alert his quarry before it’s time. He wants to see the fright in his eyes first hand as Graham is waking up. Inside, it smells like dogs. He remembers reading something about the multitude of dogs the agent owns because of his inability to form real relationships with humans.

He can make out the forms of some of them sleeping on the floor. Mutts, all of them. Mangy, patchy mutts. They don’t even stir at his passage. The man makes his way upstairs, careful not to produce a sound. When he arrives at a door, he pushes it softly, expecting to find the bedroom, Graham fast asleep. He does find the bedroom. No Graham though. And considering the way clothes have been laid upon the bed, he isn’t just out for a midnight stroll: he hasn’t been there the whole day.

In his rage, the man punches the doorjamb. The result is immediate. The dogs are running upstairs to see what’s going on. In a moment of perfect clarity, the man knows what will make Graham scared enough he will stop.

He starts kicking the small dog that’s trying to bite his boot. The thing refuses to let go. He crouches and removes forcibly the annoying little beast, throwing it with all his strength against the wall. As it reaches the floor, it twitches once, then stops moving.

He knows there are more of these pests. Downstairs, there is a heavy bar on the floor, next to something that looks like an engine. He picks it up and methodically reduces every dog around him to a heap of bloodied fur and pitiful moans.

Eventually, his rage abates and he realizes Graham is susceptible to come back anytime. He can’t be taken by surprise anymore and, as a FBI agent, he’s got a gun. One he knows how to use since he put ten bullets in Garret Jacob Hobbs. He throws the bar on the ground and looks around, making sure he hasn’t lost anything that could incriminate him and leaves, breathing heavily.

***

Will is twitching in his sleep. The cold window of the Bentley can’t make for a comfortable pillow but Hannibal enjoys watching Will sleeping. Such a display of trust flatters him. Besides, Will does need some sleep.

The psychiatrist regrets not being able to watch the young man at his leisure. The road leading to Wolf Trap, though not particularly frequented, has its dangers and accidents due to lack of attention are quick to happen. Hannibal has no plan to die in a car crash.

When he enters the path leading to the Will’s house, the many bumps wake the agent up. Still half-asleep, he yawns, unguardedly.

“You should head to bed as soon as you’re inside, Will. You are exhausted.”

“So are you, Dr Lecter. Or at least, should be. How do you do that, by the way?”

“A proper diet and a healthy sleep schedule, dear Will. You should consider it sometime. “

“Very funny, Dr Lecter. Thank you for bringing me back from the airport. You sure you don’t want to stay the night? That’s still a one hour drive back.”

“No, thank you, Will. I have work quite early in the morning.” That’s not true, but as much as he enjoys Will’s company, he is not going to sleep in a house reeking of dogs and consequently layered in dog’s hair. “Let me help you carry your luggage inside, though.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s my pleasure, Will.”

When they reach the door, heavy cases in hands, Hannibal stops, nostrils flaring. Oblivious, Will puts his hand on the door handle. Hannibal lets go of the suitcase and grabs Will’s wrist.

“I can smell someone has been there.”

“Most probably Alana. I asked her to take care of the dogs in my absence.”

“It’s not her perfume. A man’s scent. And blood too.”

Will looks at him for a second then shakes his wrist free. Gun in hand, he nods at Hannibal and silently opens his door. The scent of blood assails even him and his weak sense of smell. Switching on the lights, he takes in the sight and stops breathing.

His dogs. His pack, his family, his only friends are lying, unmoving, in a puddle of their blood.

He barely notices Hannibal kneeling next to them, headless of his suit, ascertaining their status.

Finally, he joins him on the floor, lightly stroking Peter. He isn’t cold yet, but he can tell he is already dead. He feels so cold, incapable of moving. It occurs to him he should have secured the house first, made sure the intruder was no longer there. Now, it’s too late for that. If the man were still inside, he would have made himself known already.

Hannibal raises his head after finishing what seems to be a quick exam.

“I am not a veterinarian, Will, but a veterinarian couldn’t do anything for them. I am sorry for your loss.”

He gets back on his feet and offers Will his hand.

“Come. Not all your dogs are here. Maybe some have survived.” He knows it’s dangerous to give the young man hope when there is actually very little chance for it but he needs to shake Will out of his shock. The FBI agent seems to have mentally slid out of his reach.

Will manages to stand up but just stares uselessly at the floor. Hannibal sighs and fetches a blanket from the couch.

“Just sit down there, Will. I am going to look around.”

Hannibal finds two in the kitchen. Though he doesn’t harbor much love for canines as a rule, these are Will’s pack and he recognizes their importance. They give him a purpose, something to care for, to ground him in reality. Besides, intruding on someone’s property and destroying their belongings is dreadfully rude. He will have to hunt down this man and serve him with _sauce à la Diable_.

Miraculously, the two dogs are alive. Hannibal examines them as carefully as he can to make sure they are going to keep breathing. Once certain, he wastes no time to announce it to Will. After settling the young man in the kitchen with his phone to call a vet (though he has little hope any is willing to make the trip to this corner of the woods in the middle of the night), he climbs the stairs, nearly tripping over Winston. He is alive too, barely. Cautiously palpating his flanks and legs, Hannibal isn’t sure if there is a single unbroken bone left in the dog’s body. Yet, he is still breathing. This dog is a true fighter. One for whom there is very little he can do at the moment.

In Will’s bedroom, he finds the last of them. A small basset, who, from the indentation in the wall, was thrown with some strength. Dead. There are very few things Hannibal has dreaded to do in his life. Announcing to Will the final count is one of them. He likes his Will broken by his hand, not by the actions of some pig who has no idea what he is doing.

In the kitchen, Will is sitting next to his dogs, whispering soothing words they can’t hear since they are unconscious. It does seem to provide him with a small measure of comfort, so Hannibal refrains to point it out. Instead, he leans down to inform Will of his findings in a low voice.

The tragedy of it is that none of the still alive dogs can be moved without causing them excruciating pain, due to the number of broken bones and the probable internal bleeding. Will is torn between staying with his two companions in the kitchen and checking on Winston.

He decides in favour of Winston, who greets him with a broken whimper. Will doesn’t even dare put his hand in his fur in fear of causing him more pain. In the end, he settles for a light touch on his head.

Hannibal is loathe to break the silence but, in this, he has no choice.

"Will, were you able to get hold of a veterinarian?"

Will seems to leave his daze for a few seconds. His eyes clear a bit when he answers: “Yes. He won’t be able to get there for a solid hour, though. The nearest clinic is closed at night and the next one I contacted said they would send me someone. I just have to wait until he is done with whatever emergency he has to take care of first.”

Hannibal nods, putting what he hopes is a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder. He wonders if it would be completely inappropriate to take him in his arms. He would say giving him a hug if the term wasn’t so distasteful to him.

Will’s presence seems to calm Winston. His breathing is more even now, not that it is good news though, because, with each passing minute, it is slower.

They stay together, in silence, for a long while. From time to time, Hannibal goes and checks on the kitchen dogs who seem to be quite stable. Winston’s moans are infrequent now, each more heartbreaking for Will than the precedent. Both shiver slightly, one from pain and blood loss, the other from shock and, Hannibal soon realizes, empathizing with the dying dog. In an effort to provide an anchor and a support to Will, he takes to rubbing circles on his back. At first, the agent is unreceptive to his touch. Then, after a particularly bad whine from Winston, he leans into Hannibal’s hand, seeking warmth and comfort.

Hannibal curses the fact he is so ill-prepared. It is not his habit to be without medical supplies, but with the trip he took with Will to Missouri in order to consult on a crime scene, he didn’t want to leave his car unattended in an airport parking lot with potential weapons and drugs in the trunk. Had he some morphine on hand, he could use it to bring Winston some relief, even to give a lethal injection. Surely it would be more merciful than to leave the animal suffer relentlessly. He could, of course, put an end to his misery with a sharp knife, Will’s kitchen doesn’t lack them, but he is certain Will wouldn’t take this suggestion well, or else he would have used his own weapon already.

The unmistakable sound of a car parking in the yard breaks the silence. The veterinarian is here, at long last. Hannibal is a patient person by necessity but this wait did seem very long.

He rises to greet him at the door. When he sees the weary-looking doctor, he throws courtesy to the wind, knowing it would go unappreciated in these circumstances and murmurs: “The sight is rather gruesome. There are two dogs still alive in the kitchen and one on the stairs”. The vet acknowledges this with a nod and sets to find his patients. When he steps in the living room, he stops for a second, aghast at the sight. He quickly collects himself and goes to the kitchen first. He takes a few minutes to assess the damage and injects the dogs with what Hannibal supposes is a strong pain reliever. At this stage, it does not matter anymore. He just wants the dogs to be cared for and Will in bed and sedated.

The vet pauses when he sees Winston, still lying across the stairs. After examining the dog, barely touching him for fear of causing any more pain, he strokes the dog’s muzzle gently, tears in his eyes. After a few seconds, he turns to face Will and lays a light hand on his arm. “Mr Graham, your dog is in a great deal of pain. It would be a mercy to euthanize him.” Hannibal can see the moment the words sink in. Will closes his eyes and nods minutely.

“Do you wish to be there?” Another nod. His hands are flexing and unflexing convulsively.

They watch the doctor prepare the syringe with a clear liquid, most likely pentobarbital.

“Do you want a few minutes to say goodbye?”

Will’s only answer is to lean forward and press his face in Winston’s fur, as lightly as he can. He then rubs his nose against his head and looks at his most faithful friend in the eyes, gesturing to the veterinarian to go on.

Hannibal watches Will, fascinated. There isn’t a tear in his eyes; there is only love and strength. Hannibal wouldn’t consider himself an authority on love, but this is so naked, so raw, that he cannot help but recognize it for what it is on more than a purely intellectual level. He realizes that this is Will’s last gift to his beloved dog, the last thing they will ever share.

He doesn’t touch Will, doesn’t want to intrude on such a private moment. He just sits there, next to the young man, ready to offer comfort as it is needed. Less than ten minutes later, Winston’s breathing has decreased so much it cannot be heard anymore. His eyes are closed and the veterinarian pronounces him dead. Hannibal keeps expecting him to break down but Will merely stands up and goes to the kitchen. The veterinarian has prepared large, flat carriers to transport the two sedated dogs. Between the three of them, they are able to slide the dogs on the carriers without jostling their broken bones. The walk to his van is long and painful for everyone involved. When Will makes to leave with his dogs, Hannibal puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Will, I must ask you to reconsider. You are exhausted and grieving. You need to rest. There is nothing more you can do for them. They are in good hands.”

All the strength seems to leave Will’s body at once. He just falls in Hannibal’s waiting arms and lets the psychiatrist drags him back to his house and settles him gently on the couch. He doesn’t want Will to go to his room as long as he hasn’t removed the dead basset. He also needs to do the same with the dogs in the living room, but, at least, Will has already seen those.

He considers taking Will back to Baltimore. As it is, the house is not livable, it has no comfort to speak of and he can’t properly take care of him here. Besides, there might be evidence against the intruder to gather. Spending any more time in there would make things even more complicated. He just needs to convince him it is the best option. In the meantime, he can’t keep five dead dogs inside but digging graves would take time and energy he hasn’t right now. He ends up putting them outside in the area Will keeps as a garage but never uses as such. It’s well-ventilated and wild animals shouldn’t be able to access the corpses.

The macabre task accomplished, he carries the abandoned luggage back to his car and comes back to Will who hasn’t moved an inch since he left him.

“Will, I am taking you to my home for the rest of the night. You can’t stay here.”

Will is unresponsive. Hannibal tugs him by his hand and leads him to his car.

The drive to Baltimore is quiet, but not in the good, companionable way they are used to. It is as if Will isn’t there, a shell of human, his soul departing at the same time as Winston’s. Once arrived, he almost carries the only man he could call his friend upstairs. He debates encouraging him to bathe and renounces. Will is a dead weight, capable of drowning without even noticing. He undresses him to his underwear and lays him in the bed of his guest room. He leaves briefly to prepare a sedative for the young man. Injecting it doesn’t elicit any reaction either. When Will’s eyes flutter then shut, welcoming the artificial rest, the psychiatrist stays for several minutes, observing him.

Will is going to be exceedingly fragile in the following weeks. Helping him is bound to be a delicate process.

Leaving the room, he goes back downstairs to call Jack and inform him of what happened. The agent is not happy to be woken up at 5:30 am with such dreadful news. He has no choice but to accept that Will is going to take a few days. Hanging up, Hannibal makes a mental note to call Alana to have her cover Will’s classes for the next few days. At least, Will hasn’t any today.

      ***

After Will wakes up from his chemically induced sleep, he is thankfully more present. He doesn’t talk but is receptive to offer of hydration and food, he takes a shower and nods when Hannibal tells him they need to bury his dogs ‘bodies and visit the clinic. He chooses to go to the clinic first, which Hannibal takes as a good sign, his duty to the livings reasserting itself.

At the clinic, they find the dogs still sedated, but the veterinarian assures them their bones have been set and they will live, though it’s going to take a long time for them to go back to normal. Will spends an hour there, talking to his unconscious dogs, stroking them, reassuring himself they are actually alive.

Burying the dogs is a merciless task, digging through the ground. At least, the physical effort is keeping Will busy. When they are done, he declines the offer to put flowers on their graves. Instead, he piles small rocks upon the site, marking it and making sure wild animals are not going to unearth them.

Unfortunately, they are not done. The FBI team has been there in the morning, but Beverly herself informed Hannibal there wasn’t anything of relevance to be found. They are free to clean and tidy the house. The mechanical move of scrubbing the floor from the blood and then removing all traces of it from the hardwood with wax visibly anchors Will. When they are done, the house is cleaner than it has been in probably years. Nevertheless, Will doesn’t offer any resistance when Hannibal takes him back to Baltimore.

The next days are spent much in the same fashion. The psychiatrist has cancelled all his non essential appointments and takes Will to the clinic every day. Alana visits and hugs Will. Hannibal doesn’t begrudge her this moment of bonding. She has a beloved pet too. She understands Will’s grief probably better than Hannibal.

Slowly, Will seems to gain more awareness of his surroundings. He doesn’t initiate conversation but answers when spoken to. They spend their evenings together in Hannibal’s study, sometimes in a comfortable silence, sometimes discussing art or literature. Occasionally, Hannibal will play something on his harpsichord. It doesn’t make Will smile, but his eyes are definitely brighter.

They touch every now and then. A hand on the shoulder, fingers brushing by accident. They are comfortable in each other’s space.

Gradually, things go back to normal. Will returns to his house. He finds it empty and too quiet and more often than not finds himself on Hannibal’s doorstep. They have dinner and talk until it’s time to retire for the night. One particular evening, Will arrives raging and crying, hating himself as much as the dog murderer he has empathized with hates Will. Though it is unpleasant to see his friend in such a sorry state, the psychiatrist can’t help but smile, knowing that Will is accepting what happened and going on with his life.

Two months later, he gets his dogs back from the clinic. It only serves to emphasize how quiet the house now is. Two dogs where there used to be seven… Even the dogs seem to feel it, looking for cuddles rather than for games as they did before, pushing their owner’s hand with their muzzle when they see him lost in thought.

   ***

One evening, Hannibal asks him to accompany him to a social event. At first, Will is incredulous. It doesn’t make sense for the perfectly dressed and mannered Dr Lecter to ask, as a plus one, no less, his badly dressed, shy and slightly anti social patient-friend. At Hannibal’s insistence and promise he is going to like it and that he doesn’t need to dress up, he relents.

When they arrive, they are welcomed by a beautiful, maternal-looking, woman, around fifty, dressed in jeans and a sweater. Will turns to Hannibal with raised eyebrows as if to say “what kind of social event is that?”He doesn’t get a chance to voice his thought. A flurry of barks interrupts him. Automatically, he turns around, seeking the source of the sound. A parting in the crowd allows him to see all the lined-up dogs. Small dogs, big dogs, average dogs, purebreds, mixed breeds, unidentifiable breeds, puppies, old dogs, even disabled ones.

Hannibal informs him that this is an auction and they are going to bid on the dogs of Will’s choice. It doesn’t take long for the FBI agent to indicate his selection. At seeing it, Hannibal is not surprised. It is very _Will_ to choose the most miserable of the whole lot. Still, he has to ask him if he is sure.

“Hannibal, no one is going to want them! See, this one with the half-bitten ear, he is looking at me. I’m going to love them. I love them already.”

It’s the extent of his argumentation, but Hannibal knows better than to discuss it. Besides, seeing Will with such a happy smile is worth enduring the baffled looks the _Tout Baltimore_  are throwing at him when they hear him bid on the worst looking animals. The smidge of satisfaction he feels at rubbing their nose in their shallowness has nothing to do with it, of course.

Back at the car, they put the dogs in the carriers Hannibal had taken care to surreptitiously bring. Before placing each dog in their carrier, Will pets them, letting them take in his scent. He is rebuilding his family, his pack.

Rising on his feet, he looks up at Hannibal, initiating a very rare eye contact, and conveys through it all his feelings.

   ***

Will seems happy. As happy as possible considering his gift and the toll it takes on him. His new family brings joy and loud noises to his house and his life. He smiles sometimes. Somehow, the killers are like another world he can, at least partially, step out of when he comes home. He always keeps a foot in it, of course, as if it could be any different. However, losing his pack has brought him a new hardness. He never speaks of them or their killer. He doesn’t need to. Hannibal knows they are always on his mind; he shares this same curse.

The FBI investigation hasn’t wielded any result. Not that anyone expected them. Besides, for all the respect the team has for Will’s ability, they can’t exactly afford the resources to investigate a few dogs’ death in the same way they would humans.

Will takes to locking his door, something he never deemed necessary before. He also invests in a top-notch security system. It might not stop intruders but it will certainly not let them go unidentified. He spends as much time as possible with his dogs, even takes some pictures.

Hannibal doesn’t say a thing. What could he say, anyway? He shouldn’t be satisfied with Will’s progress toward a healthier lifestyle considering his plans for the FBI agent, but he can’t bring himself to set it back. Broken Will is fascinating. Happy Will is mesmerizing. Sometimes, Hannibal thinks himself a fool for believing that only breaking his soul could bring out Will’s inner darkness. For all his bright smiles and his happiness, there is a hardness in him which was previously absent. It stays hidden most of the time by the new polish Will seems to be acquiring lately, due, no doubt, to the influence of many nights spent talking with Hannibal.

They touch more often, now, and the psychiatrist has taken to driving to Wolf Trap sometimes, after his day of work, seeking soothing company and intelligent conversation. He no longer sees Will as his patient, if he ever has. They are friends, a new feeling, but not an unpleasant one. He should probably avoid mentioning it in session with Bedelia; it is hard not to, though. He doesn’t want to shout it at the top of his emotional lungs as he has seen too many people do; it’s just that Will has inserted himself so neatly in every aspect of his life that he can’t do anything without being reminded of him. Quite logically, mentions of Will can’t help but creep into his conversations with his therapist. He ought to be more worried about it; his lack of concern is probably the most concerning thing of all.

They share some outings. Will accepts, occasionally, to go to the Opera, a concert, an exposition opening night. They go fishing together and Hannibal even learns a few new fish recipes. It is becoming all very… domestic, as Bedelia gleefully pointed out. Well, not gleefully, but with a smile showing the intent behind it clearly enough.

***

A few months later, after a particularly draining case, Beverly convinces the team, including Will and Hannibal, to have a drink in a bar before heading home. As Hannibal is trying not to get any dirt on his suit and maybe select an acceptable beverage, he smells something familiar. He can’t place it immediately though. There are far too many people in that damnably crowded place and finding the source of that distasteful stench is a challenge. It takes Will narrating some antics of one of his dogs for him to recall where he smelt this before. He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and walks slowly through the room, intent on finding the smelly individual.

It is a male, well in his forties, with an unpleasant scowl permanently etched on his face and the tan of someone used to working outdoors. It is confirmed by his clothing, sturdy and easily washable. His footwear is a giveaway as well: he is wearing boots in the middle of summer. From his conversation with the bartender, he is a regular. This piece of information is going to be quite helpful in hunting down that pig.

Once he goes back to his seat next to Will, the bar seems, all of sudden, lively and rather welcoming.

  ***

Tracking the unwary man is not complicated in the least. He just has to hide in the shadow near the bar’s exit the next evening, follow him to his house and strike. He takes more than he usually does. The man was in perfect physical condition and there are going to be many guests eating from him.

Two nights later, Hannibal arrives at Wolf Trap heavily charged with dinner. He is welcomed at the door by a smiling Will who takes the biggest container from his hands, gently chiding him for going to so much trouble. The psychiatrist often has small treats for the dogs, but this evening, a real feast is awaiting them. They are suitably grateful for the meal. Will has trained them well. The same Will is watching the scene with fond eyes, only voicing his fear his dogs will no longer accept their usual dog food after the lavish sausages they have been served.

“Nonsense, Will. The best food is the one prepared and served with care –he doesn’t dare say love. They know you care for them and therefore will accept being fed their ordinary fare with joy.”

The dinner for the humans is just as lavish, though Hannibal chose a simple marinade and a mix of butter and French beans to accommodate the dog killer –introduced as pork. He wants Will to taste his flesh, not be distracted by an over elaborated dressing.

Will is not shy in compliments, as usual. It would be stupid for Hannibal to wish his host knew what he is being treated to, but for once, he makes an exception. A part of himself silently urges Will to recognize what he is eating. Another part wonders if Will doesn’t already know anyway. His smile is growing brighter with each forkful, with a definite edge to it, and his eyes, when they lock with Hannibal’s, shine with gratitude.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Should you wish, feel free to drop me an ask here : [my Tumblr](http://cuddlykoalas.tumblr.com/)


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